


It Really Only Gets More Complicated (As We Go Along)

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Complicated Relationships, Don't Blame Me The Fic Is Writing Itself, M/M, Tags'll Be Added As I Go Along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-10 23:10:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/791262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We're really close," he says quietly, eyes averted and fingers wringing.  "He's like a brother to me."  And it's not quite a lie--but it's not quite the truth, either, and that fact hurts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Grantaire--This Is Normal

There's something about a nice bath that can make everything almost okay. Grantaire lights another cigarette and stretches out his legs. This apartment... this apartment is awful—the rent is too high, the rooms are too small, the walls are too thin—but the bathtub is what makes it worth it. It's massive and comfortable and the water _almost_ gets hot enough. One of his sole, completely guiltless enjoyments is lying in that tub until the water goes cold.

On his exhale, a soft knock breaks the quiet. “Yes?” he drawls, a smile tugging at his lips.

Looking strangely soft around the edges, with his long golden hair let down in waves around his face and shoulders, Jehan steps in holding in one hand two beers and in the other a towel. “Can I join you?” he asks, voice sweet as ever. And how can anyone deny that? Certainly Grantaire has never been able to. He makes a wide gesture with one hand and sits up to give the other man room.

“It's going cold,” he warns, taking the drink that is offered to him.

“I just need to wash my hair,” the other answers as he undresses. He settles into the bath in between Grantaire's knees with such grace it would make a ballerina green with envy and turns to pluck the cigarette from between his thick, rough fingers. He sets his own beer on the floor beside the tub and pushes his hair back behind him; the tips dip into the water. “Would you?”

Grantaire loves Jehan. There's something awfully lacking in the language he speaks, though—he doesn't know a word or a phrase to fill what he feels for Jehan. Love is too general, too sweeping. They've known each other since they were kids; Prouvaire knows things about him that no one should ever know. He feels something so deeply for the young poet that putting it into words sometimes hurts—as if he's compressing himself as he compresses his feelings into something understandable, relatable. Remove Jehan and Grantaire is nothing, has nothing—the same, he feels, could not be said about the other. Jehan would flourish with or without Grantaire.

In response to a wordless command, Jehan leans back. His implicit trust in the other is heartrending; the solid weight of his skull fits well into the cup of Grantaire's hand, and his hair fans in the water as he reclines. When he rises, it clings to his back and neck. The other works weird but fitting citrus-and-rose shampoo into his hair, massages Jehan's scalp with strong fingers and blunt fingernails and smirks when he sighs, “ _Oh_ , you should be illegal.”

When he's finished, Grantaire braids Jehan's hair because he likes the way it looks like that, a long plait down the center of his back. Like familiar constellations, he traces with his eyes the familiar patterns of freckles peppering the shoulders before him. “How was class?” he asks for the sake of breaking the silence.

Sometimes without eye contact, the silence still makes Grantaire uncomfortable.

Humming lightly, Jehan shrugs. “It was fine. I don't understand why every year I need to be reminded what the rhetorical appeals are, or why we have to waste an entire class on them, but it was fine,” he replies. “Oh! Remember Combeferre?” he exclaims, twisting to face his friend. “He's the one majoring in philosophy—the one who organized my writing group?” He doesn't wait for an answer, continuing hurriedly, “Well, his collaboration with Courf got picked up by a publisher! Philosophy for kids, R!” He shifts, water sloshing, until he's cross-legged and grinning at Grantaire. “So, a couple of us thought we'd go out to that great little club to celebrate on Friday and I know you're working but maybe you could come after?” he blurts, looking a little shyly through his eyelashes.

The trick is endearing and almost impossible to deny. Almost. Smiling a little sadly, Grantaire shakes his head, curls falling before his own eyes. “I'm sorry,” he mumbles. “I'm just beat and I work doubles every day until Sunday. Besides, writing group is your thing—they're your friends and I don't think Courfeyrac likes me very much.”

To be fair, the one time Courfeyrac met Grantaire, they'd both been drunk as hell and neither had been having very successful... well, lives. Things have improved and Grantaire's gotten better but he tends to avoid scenes of previous folly.

Jehan sighs a noise of consideration and takes Grantaire's fingers. “Did you paint today?”

“Some.”

“So cryptic,” he teases, then falls silent.

Slowly, so he doesn't splash much, Grantaire stands. “I'm thinking shitty movie night,” he mumbles to his reflection as he towels off. “I brought home some leftover garbage can pizza. It's only half as bad as it sounds,” he offers. He turns back to find Jehan sinking into the water until just his head is visible.

“Shitty movie night sounds good but I'm not touching that pizza. I saw it in the fridge—it looks like it's going to come to life at any moment,” he responds, voice delicate and eyes down, a contented smile playing on his lips.

“If you're not out in five, I'm picking the movie again,” Grantaire threatens playfully. “And I _will_ pick Tarantino.”


	2. Jehan--He Has a Routine

The first time Jehan fell asleep during shitty movie night, they'd been in middle school and he had almost cried. But R had just smiled and hugged him and told him, “It's called 'shitty movie night' for a _reason_ , Prouvaire. Sleeping through it is a _blessing.”_ He used to think Grantaire was so dangerous and so grown up, swearing without stammering and showing him Pulp Fiction. When they met, he was so quiet and his eyes were so dark and he seemed so mysterious—and the mystery made him seem so _big._ And even then there was an air of apathy to him. As if he had seen too much of the world to find anything of real consequence, as if he couldn't be bothered to be riled. He slouched and he hid; one could almost forget his presence.

Well, Jehan supposes some things will never change.

They've know each other for a decade; R's mannerisms, peculiarities, and moods are familiar. Moving around him and with him is to Jehan as natural as breathing. When he paints, he may not talk for days. When he drinks, he can't stop. He feels deeply. He doesn't let on. And Jean Prouvaire has spent ten years of his life cataloging that man's vagaries and habits, his passions and motivations and masks. He's been frustrated by him and inspired by him, inconvenienced by him and amazed by him and puzzled by him—he's taken care of and been cared for by him. Of course Jehan loves him. Of _course_ he'd never be who he is without Grantaire. He can't fathom anything without the other man and he _knows_ R doesn't believe that, not really.

At the base of it all, Jehan thinks mostly Grantaire is _scared_. Of being alone, of failing, of hurting someone—of caring. So he pretends not to care and Jehan goes with the charade and loves him anyway.

Now, during shitty movie night, Jehan lays half on top of R, hips and legs wedged between the back of the couch and the other's hips and legs. One hand curls on the spot where R's belly is bared, where his shirt is hiked up just a little and where he can play his fingers through the hair there, the other is folded against his chest. His ear is planted _just so_ on Grantaire's chest and his steady heartbeat is soothing. It's that that makes his eyes slide shut, really. Later, almost vaguely, he feels the weight of a big hand on the side of his head, warmth spreading through damp hair.

He wakes quite warm and alone. He's got an awful crick in his neck and class soon. It takes him a moment to figure out why he's awake when he hears, tinny and very far away, his alarm in the other room. Huffing, he slumps back into the couch. After a moment, he pushes himself up, slides his feet to the floor, stands. As he sleepily stumbles to the kitchen, he scritches the base of his skull where his hair is still braided. There's still-hot coffee in the pot and he sends a silent thank-you to an absent Grantaire. The brew is black and almost too strong to be taken but Jehan is used to his best friend's coffee-making skills and it settles warmly in his stomach. It's an easy step from warmth to revitalization, from there to the bathroom to get ready for the day.

He's got a routine. He dresses—it's warm enough for a light shirt and a pair of cutoffs that Grantaire deems his “European tourist” shorts which seems a touch hyperbolic as they aren't _that_ short—and untangles his hair; his hair is clipped up, his shoelaces tied, his book bag organized. The bus stop is close to their apartment and the bus isn't too crowded and the book he's reading is delightful. Once on campus, his feet guide him to the little internet cafe near the library where the barista makes his tea so perfectly and where they always have chocolate chip muffins while his eyes stay on the page before him. While he waits in line, he makes notes in the margins.

Then, tea and muffin in hand, he makes his slow way to class, where only a few others have gathered. No sooner has he gotten settled in his usual seat than does Cosette collapse into the chair next to him and say with all the persuasive power of a wounded kitten, “Please tell me you have notes on the reading.”

“You didn't do the reading?” he asks as he pulls out his notebook. He frowns. “I thought you liked the French Revolution.”

First a blush spreads across her cheeks, then a smile across her lips as she responds, in her quietly happy way, “I—well, I _do,_ but I—I met a guy last night and we...maybe ended up accidentally talking until a couple hours ago. Like, when Dad woke up.”

“'A _guy_?'” he repeats eagerly, seizing the information greedily. “Like, a _guy_ guy?” He slides his notes down the table to her and points out where to start. “What's he look like? What's his name?"

As soon as it had appeared, her grin disappears and she mumbles something indistinctly. Her companion makes an indignant noise and sort of shifts his chair closer, impatient. She won’t meet his eyes when she says, “I—I don’t know… We met on this site and didn’t exchange names or anything…” After a moment more, she continues, “We're supposed to talk again tonight.”

Wordlessly, which is perhaps wise, he reaches over to pat her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter went a little by the wayside towards the end, sorry.


End file.
